


Discipline

by Lyledebeast



Series: Margaret and John [3]
Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Introspection, Married Life, Pregnancy, Teasing, pregnancy worries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyledebeast/pseuds/Lyledebeast
Summary: A few months into her pregnancy, Margaret witnesses John berating one of his subordinates and decides to have a word with him about it.  And something more than a word.





	Discipline

Margaret looked down at the icy street below with a sigh, the corners of her lips pulled down.  With winter settling in, John had suggested, ordered, and finally pleaded with her to spend more time at home.  If it were simply of matter of her being visibly pregnant, Margaret would still be going to the mill to have lunch with her husband every day.  After all, many of the working women were at their posts almost until their labor began.  But John’s appeals to the dangers of walking on ice in her condition, along with accounts of some of the accidents and injuries he had witnessed, had finally prevailed on her.  Now, the closest she got to the mill was the window through which her attention was currently fixed, which gave her the opportunity of watching John return home each day from the warmth of the upstairs sitting room.  Usually, she was glad when she saw him after missing his presence all day.  But today, she had recognized his voice before his face, and now she frowned down on him as he shouted at Jones, the new young foreman.

Even from the window, she could see Jones’ shoulders stooping.  Margaret could barely make out what they were saying, but it was plain that Jones had given up trying to explain or defend himself.  Still, John continued shouting, unabated.  His hands tightened into fists, and her heart quickened with anxiety that she feared would make her nauseous.  Surely John wouldn’t hit him, as he had poor Stephens the first time she ever set eyes on him.  It was some relief that at that moment John gave a dismissive shake of his head and turned and walked on, putting an abrupt end to the conversation.  Jones stood for a moment stunned before turning, his head still low, and walking off in the opposite direction.  Margaret turned her back to the window and raised a hand to cover her mouth.  Her face was hot with agitation, and she knew she would have to compose herself before she saw John.  Their months of marriage had only strengthened her conviction that tact was a far more effective way to persuade him than anger, but she certainly didn’t feel tactful.  How could he be so cruel? She had been so convinced of the progress he was making.

Once downstairs, some of her indignation dissipated when she saw her husband’s weary expression.  Though it was not the contrition she would have liked to see, it was clear that something was troubling him.

“John, dear.  What is the matter?” she asked after greeting him with a kiss.

He avoided her gaze, replying: “Nothing, love.  I’m only chilled by the wind.”

Thus unobserved, Margaret allowed herself to arch an eyebrow.  The cold weather might be an excuse for _her_ to be out of spirits—it was, after all, only her second winter in Milton--but from a man who had spent his life there, it was an obvious dodge.

“Would cup of tea warm you?” she inquired.

John must have heard the incredulity in her voice, for he glanced up at her with a half-smile, his face softening a bit.

“No, thank you, dearest. Remember, we have been invited to dine at the Slicksons’ this evening.  I’ve only come home to change clothes.”

He paused to remove his gloves and coat before looking at her again.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to accompany me?”

Margaret smiled at that, her anger fading.  She had been going out less and less as her pregnancy progressed, but John still always asked her, and usually more than once.

“I will stay and have a quiet dinner with your mother, I think.  But, please give Mrs. Slickson my regards.”

“I will.  You’ll be missed,” he replied.

Her smile widened at his words.  He always said the same thing, but she doubted it very much.  Violet, Mrs. Slickson, was as retiring as her name suggested, but Margaret quite liked her.  The man, however, grated on her nerves, and she found that difficult to hide.  He had such contempt for his workers, seeing them more as vehicles to profit rather than human beings.  She had found herself making cutting retorts to him more than once.  So, it was all the more meaningful that John insisted on inviting her.  He clearly was not embarrassed; if anything, he encouraged her.

John leaned down to kiss her once more, reassuring her that he would be home early, before climbing the stairs.  Once he was out of sight, Margaret felt her the weight of her worries return.  She would have to speak to him about what she had seen, but it was too soon.  Perhaps the dinner with a man who was so much less concerned and compassionate than himself would give him time to reflect, to prepare him for what she had to say to him.  She certainly hoped so.

* * *

“You are quiet this evening, Margaret.  Are you well?” Hannah inquired over the dinner.  Margaret had seen her mother in law watching with concern, but it was so difficult to bring up what was on her mind.  Their relationship had improved vastly since her marriage, but she was still hesitant to say anything that Hannah might see as presenting John in a critical light.  She was still his mother, and still defensive of him.

“I am very well, thank you,” she replied.  Hannah seemed accept that as sufficient and went back to eating, but when Margaret sat down her fork, she looked up again with concern.  Margaret’s appetite had only recently returned after several weeks of intermittent nausea, so the pause was guaranteed to get Hannah’s attention.

“It’s just . . . I am a bit worried about John. Has he not seemed a bit . . . tense these past few days?”

Watching her warily, Hannah sat her own fork down.  “He has, I suppose, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Has he said anything to raise this concern?”

“No,” Margaret replied, “but perhaps he does not wish to worry me.”

Hannah gave a small, tired smile.  “And yet, here you are: worried nonetheless.  Why?”

Well, there was no way to broach the subject in a polite, indirect southern way.  Margaret pressed her lips into a thin line; she would have to proceed like a northerner.

“I saw him shouting at the new foreman from the window today.”

“Jones?” Hannah inquired.

Margaret nodded, but remained silent, letting her interpret the observation in her own way.

“John has always been impatient with subordinates at first.  Even more so than some workers, who are old enough to know better than to try him.”

Margaret took up a piece of bread, concealing her smile by biting into it.  She wondered if Hannah had Nicholas Higgins in mind, and if she knew that John had offered the foreman position to him, only to be turned down.  “I have to keep my reputation as a trouble-maker up somehow,” Nicholas had said by way of explanation.  She suspected that was a secret kept between herself and her husband.

“But he has told me before that Jones bears the responsibility well, in spite of his youth,” she added.  “I wonder what he could have done to upset John so.”

Hannah considered thoughtfully for a moment. “It is possible that he has done nothing amiss. Production is always slower at this time of year.  It could be that John is simply frustrated by that.”

She said all of this in a calm, nonchalant tone that left Margaret surprised. If John was concerned about that, his mother certainly was not. “Does this happen every year?”

“It is the hallmark of the season,” Hannah explained.  “Workers move more slowly when their fingers are cold, and there is no safe way to keep the mill warm.”

Margaret supposed that was true; if a pipe could cause the damage John had described, what could a fireplace do?

“But if that is the case,” she asked, “why is John more than usually worried now?”

Hannah gave her a patient smile, as though the answer was obvious.  “Well, I suppose he may feel that he has more to lose this year.  He is married, and with a child on the way as well.  Such blessings have a price.”

Margaret knew there was no more to be said after that; it was certainly too late to remedy those things now, even if she had wanted to.  But the answer did not satisfy her.  Even if she could not solve the problem, there had to be something she could do.

* * *

John had arrived home looking even more worn than when he had left, but that surprised him little.  How could anyone bear a dinner with the Slicksons well alone? Though it took considerable coaxing, she finally persuaded him to retire early.  After bidding the housekeeper goodnight, she went up to bed herself.

She found her husband stretched out on his belly, already dressed for bed.  After she had changed into her nightgown and taken her hair down, she could not resist teasing him as she combed it out.

“What is the matter, John? Did Mr. Slickson exhaust you with his wit?”

He heaved a deep sigh.  “With his complaining, maybe.  If he’s going to try his chances in America, I wish he would get on with it.”

She stood and crossed to the bed, sitting down next to him and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, his complaining is hardly new.  But . . . you did seem troubled by something when you came home this afternoon.  Is it anything I can help with in any way?”

John sighed as she lowered her hand between his shoulder blades and continued rubbing. “No,” he answered drowsily , “just the usual mill business.”

“So, there is nothing for me to worry about?”

John lifted his head to give a brief glance back at her before settling it down on the pillow again. “There is always something to worry about at the mill, but no.  This has not been any worse than the typical winter.  I . . . oh, yes! Just there, love.”

Margaret smiled down at his broad back as he seemed to sink further into the mattress.  She had curved her fingers, pressing the nails into his back just below his shoulders, the spot that was nearly impossible for him to reach himself.

“So,” she said as she continued to scratch his back, leaning down closer, “shouting at Jones this afternoon was not your solution to a problem.  You simply lost your temper.”

She felt him stiffen at her words.  When he attempted to turn around, she raised her hand to his shoulder again and held him in place.  “No, there’s no need to explain, John. I saw you from the window.” It came out more sharply than she intended, and she paused with a frown.  It seemed cruel to attack him as soon as he had relaxed for her, but some of her anger at the memory had returned as she described it.

She felt her hand move up and down with his back as he sighed.

“Are you angry with me, Margaret?” he asked, a meek murmur that she could barely hear.

For a moment, she just continued rubbing his back, pressing lightly with her fingertips until his tension began to dissipate gain. “I was,” she confessed.  “But then I spoke with your mother, and she explained.  She said the transition to winter is always an adjustment for the workers.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words with great care. “I know that you . . . are not a man who lets his temper take control lightly. So, it seemed to me that if the cause is not with the workers, or with Jones, or anything else at the mill . . . than it must be here.” She stopped, realization dawning.  Perhaps that had been the problem all along.  He had seemed irritable for no reason, but of course there was a reason.  At last, she continued: “there must be some way in which I am not satisfying you.”

She slid her hand down to his lower back and rested it there, watching it move to his side as he turned to look at her. Glancing up, she saw his brow drawn tight with worry.

“You have done nothing wrong, Margaret,” he cried, alarmed.  “How could you think that?”

“Lie down, John,” she urged him with a tranquil smile.  When he had obeyed, she purred “I didn’t say that I did something wrong. It was you who decreed that I not . . . satisfy you in our accustomed way.”

As she spoke, she slipped her hand down, brushing her fingertips over the curve of his arse and down the back of his thigh.

John gasped and shuddered.  “M . . . Margaret? Wh . . . what are you doing,” he stammered.

She swallowed as her throat grew tight, but persisted.  Reaching the bottom hem of his nightshirt, she slid her hand up again, letting it bunch around her wrist.  John sighed as she pushed her fingers down between his thighs.

“Is my hand too cold, love?” she asked teasingly.

 “It’s not that,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “I just . . . there are . . . more conventional ways to warm your hands.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” she cooed.  “But . . . I thought you might enjoy this way.”

John shifted beneath her, then tensed.  It felt as though he was staying in place through sheer force of will.

“It’s not a matter of whether I enjoy it,” he insisted.  “But . . . we shouldn’t . . .”

He trailed off into a sigh as she moved her hand up from between his legs to cup his arse.

“We shouldn’t what, darling?

John took a deep breath before attempting to answer, and when he spoke his voice was strained.  “I think . . . the direction that this taking . . . oh!”

He moaned and spread his legs as she slipped her hand down again, lower this time, to stroke the underside of his scrotum.

“Let me decide the direction this is taking, love,” she murmured.  “You have so many responsibilities, and there is so little I can do to help you now.  Please let me, John?”

When he made no reply, she took his warm sac in her hand, rolling the stones against her palm.

“Ah!” he cried.  “Ye . . . yes.”

“I think you should turn over now,” she said, noting the huskiness in her own voice.  Though she was doing this for her husband, she insisted to herself, she could not deny that she had been longing to touch him like this again far more than she dared mention aloud.

He hesitated to obey, but turned his head to look at her.  She smiled at how flushed his face had grown at her attentions, and wondered how she must look to him.  Did she appear as hot as she felt?

“Turn over, John,” she repeated, and when he made no response she trailed a single finger up between the cheeks of his arse and pressed just beneath his hole.  His mouth opened wide in a loud groan and he rutted against the mattress.

“Or I could try to finish you like this,” she suggested, “If that is what you would prefer.”

With great effort, he rose to his knees, and Margaret pushed the nightshirt up to the center of his back.  Looking down, she could see his sac hanging heavy and dark with blood already.  How long had it been since she had seen that part of his body? It certainly felt longer than a few weeks, and she felt her heart pounding with her eagerness to see the rest of him.

As he half lay, half fell onto his back, she slid her hands up his body until the shirt bunched under his arms.

“Oh, John!” she gasped at the sight, a surge of heat spreading through her. His chest rose and fell rapidly and the muscles in his belly twitched as she stroked over them.  Already slick with precome, his cock looked painfully swollen as it stretched up towards his navel.

“I think . . . perhaps you have missed this,” she ventured, looking over him again in wide-eyed awe.

John chucked, the sound strained by his labored breathing.  “What would make you say that, darling?”

With a quirk of her eyebrow, she glanced down at his erection before meeting his gaze again.

“You’re a bold thing, do you know that? Not a proper manufacturer at all.”

When he grinned in response, she slid her hands up to his chest, tweaking the pink nipples that stood erect through his chest hair. 

“Oh . . . darling, please!” he whined.  His hips bumped against her as he jerked, his eyes tight shut.

“I’ll touch you,” she purred, rubbing her thumbs over his nipples to soothe them.  “But I want you to promise me something first.”

“Anything,” he panted.

She lay her hands flat, just beneath his sternum. “When you arrive at the mill in the morning, apologize to Jones.  Tell him that you understand he’s doing his best.”

For a moment, he seemed to come back to himself.  His brow furrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Of course I will, Margaret. It’s true, and I would have told him . . . regardless.”

She smiled as she reached down, finally wrapping her hand around his shaft.  “I know that, darling.  But I felt I had to discipline you a little.”

* * *

John had climaxed after only a few tight strokes, crying out as he arched his back.  When she lay down next to him, pulling his hand between her legs underneath the swell of her belly, he showed no hesitation.  After the excitement of having him so completely in her power, she found release almost as quickly as he had.

“Well, no harm done after all,” she observed lazily as she draped an arm over his chest, laying her head on his shoulder.

John pressed a kiss to her forehead and sighed with contentment.  “No, but I hope you can understand my caution. I was only thinking of your heath, and our child.” He moved his hand to rest it lightly on her belly. “This is my first, after all.”

“Yes, but . . . it’s mine too, John.”

He froze for moment before they both burst into laughter.

“I . . . of course, darling . . . I just meant that . . .”

She pressed her fingers to his lips gently, silencing him.

“I know, love.  I’m worried too.  There are so many things that could go wrong, even now.  There are too many dangers to consider.  But . . . if the worst does happen, I want to have enjoyed our time together as much as possible. What do you think?”

As she looked up at his face, she saw the lines of worry that had crept in fade as he smiled and bent down to kiss her.

“I think you are a wise woman, my dear.”


End file.
